


Don't Say You Won't

by broi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, BDSM, Breathplay, Consensual Thramsay, Cos Ramsay asks him to be, D/s, Dirty Talk, Fluff, Honestly this is just silly, M/M, Nah Ram is ok really, Prostate Massage, Prostate Milking, Ramsay is his own warning, Rimming, Sex Toys, Snark, Theon being an ass, Thramsay - Freeform, Verbal Humiliation, dominant!Theon, hints at knifeplay, so very much rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 17:37:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11257668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broi/pseuds/broi
Summary: Set in the Bloodied Up AU where Thramsay is consensual and Reek is an elaborate cover-up for Ramsay and Theon's wonderfully sick and sappy existence.Ramsay muses a little about Theon's life before he came to the Dreadfort and decides he'd like to meet the famous whore-mongering kraken Prince he's heard so much about. Dutiful as always, Theon does as he's told, gives Reek a rest, and cracks out the Theon Greyjoy of old. All too quickly, it becomes apparent Ramsay has bitten off a little more than he can chew...





	Don't Say You Won't

**Author's Note:**

> Like my other one in this series, this is **early** Thramsay. They're still getting the measure of each other...before Ramsay becomes entirely possessive and Theon entirely submissive. Exploration is fun, kids! Also, I've written a fic in which NO BLOWJOB HAPPENS, what the actual fuck, am I ill, someone call an ambulance. All credit for concept goes as always to Lelithsugar who is vastly superior to me in every way so go read the rest of the series or else.

They’re lying, entirely naked, across the furs on Ramsay’s bed, illuminated by three dying candles and the last glowing embers of yesterday’s fire. How late – or, by now, how early – it is, neither can say. Ramsay would guess most of the seed he’d left up Theon’s delightfully round arse has dribbled out and dried by now; that is, of course, unless the little freak has managed to clamp his legs shut successfully enough to trap it up there. Theon’s lying across Ramsay’s thigh in almost the same position he’d fallen into once Ramsay had finished with him and pushed him backwards off his cock with a satiated sigh. 

Their shared goblet of wine sits on the side table next to the bed, alongside a pair of worn leather straps, a bull-ended cane whip, and Ramsay’s second-favourite flaying knife. 

“Pass the wine, Reek,” says Ramsay.

Theon groans. “I ache all over. Get your own wine.”

“It is _our_ wine and you’re closer than I am. You need to move your limbs after you’ve been tied, you know that, or they’ll seize up. Pass the wine, or do I have to ask a second time? I hate asking a second time.” 

He huffs, as he always does, the spoiled little kraken, but nevertheless he straightens up, retrieves the goblet, and passes it back to Ramsay. Ramsay could thank him, he supposes, but he’s tired from the fucking and thanks is effort. 

After swallowing a gulp, he passes it back to Theon. “Drink. At least three big mouthfuls. Your thighs are going to come up purple.”

“They’re already purple.”

“And you love it. Come here, squid.”

Theon nestles under Ramsay’s armpit, resting his cheek on his chest. Absentmindedly, Ramsay falls to running his fingertips over the raised welts on Theon’s thigh where he’s draped it across Ramsay’s legs. Theon’s skin is blazingly hot and the stripes left behind by Ramsay’s whip feel even hotter. Theon hums a contented sigh into Ramsay’s chest. “Don’t stop. It’s so relaxing.”

Ramsay grins, but doesn’t remove his caress. “It appears Prince Theon likes being touched gently as much as he enjoys being roughed up.”

“Prince Theon does not.”

Ramsay’s hand hovers above Theon’s thigh. “Then I’ll stop.”

Theon pauses for only a short moment before he clasps Ramsay’s hand and presses it back to his skin. His voice is a low grumble. “You’re infuriating.”

“Theon,” smiles Ramsay sweetly, “I shan’t do anything unless you ask me to. _Trust,_ you see. You should know that by now.”

“This is different! You’d never – never hurt me unless I asked. This isn’t – I mean, you don’t need _permission_ to – to be nice—”

“ _Theon._ ” 

“Then touch me, for fuck’s sake.”

“Ask _nicely_.”

Theon coughs out a frustrated little sigh. “Please, Ramsay, stroke my thigh again.” 

“ _Titles_ …”

“You’re a cunt—”

Ramsay gasps in mock horror. “Theon, that is _not_ my title—”

He groans: long, loud, infuriated, needy. Greyjoy is just so _easy._ Ramsay ghosts his fingers near enough Theon’s thigh to make him whinge in that delicious little way Ramsay is becoming far too fond of. “Lord Bolton, _please_ \--”

“ _Better._ ” Ramsay grins, all teeth, and leans forward to capture Theon’s lips in his own. It’s so fucking sexy when Theon moans into his mouth, shudders at his gentle touch. It’s almost like he shrinks to half his size, perfect for Ramsay to envelop, to claim. Perhaps he’ll fuck Theon like a woman later, when his cock has recovered, laid out on his back with his legs spread. _No…no. Not quite right._ And then a vision flashes into his mind of Theon curled up in his lap, arms flung around Ramsay’s neck, as Ramsay cradles him about the legs and rocks him gently on his cock, slowly at first, and then harder…

“Theon. You need to get in my lap. At once.”

Theon’s eyes open slowly, as though reaffirming himself in reality after being lost to the bliss of Ramsay’s touch. _Well, who can blame him,_ Ramsay thinks. Frowning, Theon props himself up onto an elbow. To be honest he ought to be glad Ramsay doesn’t bite his collarbone, the way it’s jutting out like that, but Ramsay knows he can’t promise he won’t, even though he’s already been relentless with Theon today. He hadn’t even got to _use_ the knife, the whip was so much fun.

“I’m very relaxed here, so don’t you dare bite my neck,” mutters Theon. “Oh, don’t glare at me like that; it was obvious you were thinking it. Your eyes glitter and your jaw goes a bit slack, like a dullard’s—”

It’s fairly hard, the slap Ramsay lands on Theon’s jaw, though if he’s entirely honest he’d held back a little. When Theon rolls his eyes, has the audacity to look bored, Ramsay grips him under his chin and squeezes tight. “Like a _dullard_?”

“That’s more like it,” smirks Theon. “Though, you’re squeezing in the wrong place. That’ll just give me a fucking headache. Gods, you’re a bit shit at breathplay, but no matter. Shift your grip round. I want to feel like I’m going to black out.”

How fucking _dare_ he! 

“Well, maybe I _want_ to give you a fucking headache. You think this is about making _you_ feel good?” Ramsay holds his grip, holds Theon’s smirking eyes in his own gaze for a long moment, and then he shifts his angle, laughing a little to cover the concession. Immediately, Theon hisses _’yessss…’_

“Pass out then, you little freak. You know what I’m going to do to you when you’re under?” 

Theon hums in pleasure, his head already lolling backwards.

“ _Your feet,_ ” whispers Ramsay into Theon’s ear, and the strangled gurgle he makes in protest goes to Ramsay’s cock like a bolt of lightning. He barks out a smug laugh as he releases Theon, who rolls away from Ramsay onto the bed, coughing. Ramsay sits upright, regarding Theon with a sneer. “Pathetic little squid. I could have had you any way I wanted, then. I suggest you stop being so demanding and get onto my lap as you have been instructed. _Now._ ”

“I swear to the Drowned God,” Theon’s muttering hoarsely, wriggling down the bed towards Ramsay’s lap, “if you ever touch my fucking feet…”

“You’ll what? Come here, squidling.” Ramsay pulls Theon into his lap, and oh, it feels as warm and as pleasant as he thought it would. The whole thing is improved further by Theon’s disgruntled little mutters into Ramsay’s neck, which Ramsay soothes away with gentle fingers through Theon’s hair. “I can’t even flay one tiny little toe?” 

“You can crack that thin cane across the bridge and that is _it,_ ” Theon concedes. “No flaying, no removal of any digit, and above everything else, no sucking or fucking _kissing_ my feet, and if you ever come on them deliberately I’ll kick your Gods-forsaken head in.” 

“Point made,” murmurs Ramsay into Theon’s hair. “I won’t do anything to your feet. When you are conscious or can feel it—”

“ _Ramsay_ \--”

“Shh.” Ramsay wraps his arms around Theon’s shoulders. He hasn’t been at the Dreadfort long, but already the Reek treatment has started to take its toll on Theon’s body. His upper arms have lost some muscle definition; his chest is less sculpted and could even be described as more scrawny than broad. Ramsay frowns. “Your investment in Reek is commendable, Theon,” he says, “but if you continue to starve yourself, you will actually get ill. Work on hunching over, rolling your shoulders forward. It’s all an illusion. The marks I’m going to leave on you look far better on a bit of meaty flesh than they do on skin and bone. Understand?”

“Yeah. I unders—”

“Yes, _what?_ ”

Theon, to his credit, smirks into Ramsay’s neck and nuzzles with confidence right up underneath his ear. “Yes, Master.”

Ramsay doesn’t bother to hide the shudder that runs down his body. “Good boy. Now, are you going to spread your arse for me? Let me show you a good time? Take care of you?” 

“ _Already?_ ”

“Already, my princely kraken whore.” He presses a kiss to Theon’s forehead. “As I said. I want to make you feel good.”

Theon narrows an eye at him. “You’re being nice.”

“Aren’t I always nice?”

“No. No, you are not _’always nice’_.” 

Ramsay’s tempted to ask for examples, but he knows the floodgates would open. They aren’t even _that_ bad, the things he’s done to Theon thus far. It isn’t Ramsay’s fault half the Dreadfort thinks he’s taken Theon’s fingers, for one. If it’s anyone’s, it’s _Theon’s_ fault. Shrieking _”My lord no, my Lord Bolton don’t cut off my finger, agh!”_ followed by the torturous scream Theon let out as Ramsay bent him over and buried his cock up Theon’s dry arse (he begged for it) was bound to make any eavesdropper jump to the incorrect conclusion.

No, Ramsay is only unpleasant when he’s asked to be, or when he knows Theon wants it that way. 

“I am lovely,” mutters Ramsay. “I’m so good to you. I don’t _want_ to abuse you, you odd little creature. You beg me for it. I can be kind. See?”

Ramsay holds Theon tighter in his lap, and predictably Theon moulds to his body. He runs a gentle hand through Theon’s hair, enjoying the murmured soft sigh as he relaxes into Ramsay’s touch. Ramsay knows it’s particularly odd that this whole situation is not just pleasing but _warming,_ comforting to him, but then, he supposes, it must be the vulnerability that’s going straight to his cock. He could really injure Theon if he wanted to. The stupid little squid wouldn’t even see it coming. He could just tighten the crook of his elbow around Theon’s pale neck and breathe soothing words in his ear as his life escapes him, like a fish drowning in air. 

And then Theon whispers, “Nobody ever held me.”

“Hmm?” Ramsay runs a hand up and down Theon’s back. He’d given Theon a break on his back this evening, but there are still a few bumps and scratches from their games earlier that week. Ordinarily, Ramsay would press one or two, wait for Theon to gasp in pain. But for some reason, he doesn’t feel the need.

“I’ve never been…held like this. Certainly not on Pyke. And at Winterfell? No chance.”

“Not even by…perfect Robb Stark?”

Ramsay feels Theon’s body stiffen beneath him. “Especially not by perfect Robb Stark,” Theon says, all spit and venom, and Ramsay can’t help himself. 

“Too busy with that bastard Snow’s cock, I’d imagine…”

“Ram. Don’t. Just—” Theon coughs. “—just don’t.”

Ramsay holds Theon a little tighter, because he doesn’t know what to say. “Well,” he begins, not quite sure where he’s going with it, “if I were at Winterfell, I’d have fucked you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Ramsay frowns. “Er, I’m quite sure I would have at least considered it. My prick wants what it wants, and who am I to deny—”

“No – I mean—” Theon pauses, and Ramsay feels with his whole body the great sigh he emits. “You wouldn’t have liked Theon Greyjoy back then. Theon Greyjoy was a prize dick.”

“Oh, I’d have liked him. You know how much I enjoy playing with prize dicks.”

“Very funny.”

“No, really. If you were honestly as obnoxious as you say you were, can you imagine the fun I’d have had frightening it out of you? Like pulling legs off a spider.” Ramsay sighs contentedly, cuddling Theon closer. “It would have been beautiful, breaking you. Come now, don’t squirm. You’re perfectly safe—”

“—Is what you generally say before you start -- _pulling legs off_ ,” mutters Theon, though Ramsay notes he does in fact stop wriggling, instead choosing to lay his head on Ramsay’s shoulder. “I’m glad I’ve left that person behind. Says a lot when I’d pick being smeared-with-shit Reek over Prince Theon…”

“I have _never_ smeared you with shit. There are _boundaries_ \--“

Theon snorts a laugh into Ramsay’s neck. “Alyn told the others you’d made me roll around in the outhouse with the pigs—”

“Ah. Well, I did tell Alyn that. It’s not my fault he’s so painfully thick and suggestible he thinks he can actually smell it on you, though.”

“Ramsay. I’d not had a bath in _two weeks_. Rolling in shit would have probably improved whatever Gods-awful stuff I actually smelled of…”

“That is a very rude thing to say about my seed, Theon.” 

“Reek, reek, it rhymes with Lord Ramsay’s dried up, nasty....” As Theon loses his sentence to giggles, trembling with mirth in Ramsay’s arms, Ramsay rolls his eyes and smiles. It’s absurdly sweet, and Ramsay wonders where on earth he has lost himself, and whether he will ever discover himself again. Or, perhaps more accurately, whether he even wants to.

“I should like to meet Theon Greyjoy,” Ramsay muses. “You know. The obnoxious one.”

“Oh, don’t start—”

Ramsay gasps in mock outrage. “Whatever do you mean, _’Don’t start’_?”

“I know how this goes, Ram. You trick me into some game, some false sense of security, where I think you’re being nice and genuinely interested and then it ends up with me trussed up like a fucking spatchcock hen, fifteen welts on my arse and some deviant plug up my back passage, sobbing and wailing to be allowed to spill as you cackle away in the background, all glittering teeth and mad fucking eyes, saying _however did this happen, my Reek?_ as though it were all some great accident, like I tripped and _fell_ onto the ball gag—”

“Oh, little squidling. You talk as though you don’t like it. Adorable.”

“Shut up.” Theon shifts about in Ramsay’s lap, trying to fit himself even more perfectly in Ramsay’s arms. Unfortunately the only thing achieved by Theon’s movements is far too much squirming directly on Ramsay’s cock, which is suddenly and quite remarkably ready for action again. Hmm. Interesting. 

“I mean it,” Ramsay presses. He drops his hands from Theon’s arms onto his hips, pulling him closer to where his cock is hardening against Theon’s thigh. He brings his mouth to Theon’s neck, kisses towards his ear, so gently he knows Theon’s whole body is taut in anticipation and fear. “Everyone’s heard tales of the Prince of Pyke and his great prick,” Ramsay murmurs. “What he used to do with all his whores. You going to show me, Lord Greyjoy?”

Theon groans a laugh. He tips his head backwards, moaning in great temptation, which is both unwise and brilliant, because Ramsay would like to bite his pale neck, which would hurt, but no, he shouldn’t, because he is being _nice,_ and Theon knows it, the little shit, throwing his lovely neck about with such blatant disregard for his master’s authority. 

“It’s not a good idea. Trust me,” Theon mutters, eyes closed, as Ramsay’s fingers tighten on his hips, pulls him harder onto his cock. 

“If I say it is a good idea, then it is a good idea,” Ramsay growls into Theon’s ear. In response, Theon grinds his arse into Ramsay’s lap. “Good boy. See? This is just you doing as you are told. Normal. Safe. Understand me?”

“Yes, master.”

Ramsay tuts, shaking his head. He leans over to the side table, grabbing their goblet before taking a gulp of wine. “Now now. Play properly. I don’t think the Prince of Pyke would call anybody ‘master’, do you?”

Theon opens his eyes. For a moment they are glazed, unfocused…too enraptured, Ramsay assumes, with the pleasure gleaned from his master’s authoritative voice, his tight, digging fingers at Theon’s hips, surely leaving marks. But then Theon’s gaze darkens, an eye narrows into a wicked smirk, and slowly the little boy in Ramsay’s lap unfurls himself, shakes out his shoulders, runs a hand through his hair and looks Ramsay square in the face. 

“Why the fuck aren’t you on your knees? I’m not paying you to sit around drinking my wine.”

Ramsay nearly coughs out the mouthful he’s just taken, and the whole goblet almost sloshes over them both as Theon yanks it from his hand, draining it in one. 

“While you’re down there, you can fill that up,” Theon says flippantly, tossing the goblet onto the floor. Ramsay stares, first at the goblet at then at Theon, who frowns at him. “Have you had some sort of head injury? _Get on your knees, fill the goblet up._ Stupid fucking whore.”

Ramsay shoves Theon out of his lap a little harder than perhaps his brand-new persona really should, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t retain at least a shred of dignity. Theon will probably want to fuck him, and whilst that most _certainly_ won’t be happening, Ramsay could probably concede in other areas, for the purposes of experimentation. He drops to the floor – in a _crouch_ , because fuck going on his knees – retrieves the goblet and casts about for the wineskin.

“Theon. You had the wine last. Where’d you put it?”

Theon regards Ramsay much in the same way that Ramsay regards most of the populace of the Dreadfort – with thinly veiled contempt – and shrugs. “I don’t fucking know. Find it, mayhaps? Gods, you’re dull. I’ve half a mind not to pay you at all. What’d you say to that?”

“Oh. Please pay me. My Lord,” says Ramsay through gritted teeth. “I have eighteen mewling babes to feed and that nasty Lord Bolton just burned down my farm.” 

Theon snorts a laugh. Ramsay blooms with a strange swell of pride at how easily he can make Theon break character, but if it had been there for a second, it passed as quickly as it had come. 

“I don’t give a shit how many babes you’ve got. Half of them are probably mine, anyway.” Theon reaches backwards and Ramsay watches his naked torso stretch out as he feels around on the bed behind him. How easily Ramsay could lean forward, grab Theon’s cock and balls in his hand, twist _hard_ , and demand _who’s the fucking whore now, Greyjoy?_ But then Theon straightens up, bringing with him the wineskin which he tosses at Ramsay’s feet. When Ramsay does nothing but look at it, Theon huffs in impatience. “Do I have to ask twice? I don’t like asking twice.”

Ramsay pours the wine and begins count. _Using my own fucking lines against me, that’s three strikes with that mean little riding crop…the one that nearly made you throw up, you pitiable little oik._ “As you wish, my lord,” smiles Ramsay genially. 

“Better,” smirks Theon, leaning back on the headboard of the bed. He takes the goblet from Ramsay’s hand and indulges himself in a long, entitled gulp. “You’re a pretty little whore, aren’t you? I like dark hair.” Another swallow, and Ramsay’s spotted it: that tentative, almost indiscernible pause where Reek surfaces, drowns out Theon, and worries that his next words will go too far. 

“Do you, my lord?” says Ramsay coyly, pushing Theon to take the risk.

“Yes.” Another mouthful, even bigger this time. “I heard Roose Bolton fucked your mother and left her for dead. What – what made you leave your nice, peaceful existence as a miller’s get for a life whoring yourself out at the Dreadfort?”

_Clever, Greyjoy. Very fucking clever._

“A change is as good as a rest,” snarls Ramsay and, against all protocol, takes a massive swig from the wineskin. _Three more lashes. Right across his balls._ Theon fucking smirks into his goblet, drains it off. 

“Top me up.”

Ramsay is reasonably proud that he doesn’t tip the entire wineskin into Theon’s lap. “If it please you, my lord.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve got other ways of pleasing me.” Theon sets the goblet down on the side table and spreads his legs wide. At the meeting of his thighs, Ramsay watches as Theon’s cock stirs into life, hardening slowly. “You should be _grateful._ This will be the best cock you’ve ever sucked. The finest prick you’ve ever had up your arse. Ironborn cock. You’ll never want another, mark me.”

Ramsay settles by the side of the bed on the floor. It’s easier to put aside his indignance, to play along, when Theon’s statements are this painfully absurd. Did he honestly once think this ridiculous up-talk of some culture about which he has next to no understanding would really fool anybody into his bed? Halfwits and whores so addled by cunt-rot they’d lost all sense, perhaps. But functioning, attractive, sensible individuals? They’d laugh Theon Greyjoy right out of their chambers.

An adulating smile plastered across his face, Ramsay looks up at Theon in exceptionally well-acted awe. “Oh, my lord. I’ve heard tales of this Ironborn cock. They say it comes swarming out like a kraken’s great tentacle and spills an entire roomful of seed—”

“Ram. Don’t make fun of my fucking heritage.”

“Thee. Don’t be so fucking precious. _Prince of Pyke_ my arse…”

Flushing red, Theon straightens up and recovers the goblet of wine. “Fucking suck my cock, then.”

Ramsay shakes his head. “Come on, Greyjoy. You can do better than that. Stop getting your breeches all twisted and just _let go._ ”

Theon pales slightly and it makes Ramsay want to scramble to his feet and take him back into his arms. But he will not. He will see this out, as Theon will see this out, because the both of them need to _see this fucking out._

“I – I don’t trust myself, Ramsay. You’ll hate me—”

“Well, it’s a good thing I trust you then, isn’t it? And unless you genuinely did dislike the ball gag and the ankle binds and the hideous paddling I gave your arse that made you spill without a single touch to your cock, I’d say you trust me too.”

“Course I do.”

“Then fucking _man up._ Commit, Theon. Come on. Yes, yes. We both know I’m going to slap a new shade of red into, well. Most parts of you, if we’re honest, come the morning. I’m going to fucking terrify you. And you’re going to love every second, because you’re a perverted little freak.”

Theon smiles into his own lap, like a cowed dog. Ramsay gets to his feet, wraps a hand round the back of Theon’s neck and touches his forehead to his own. 

“See? There you go. It’s all right. We’re on the same plain of understanding here, Theon. Nothing you could say or do will make me treat you any more horribly than your sick, weird mind will inevitably demand. So _let. Go._ ”

There’s a pause as Theon takes a deep breath. He meets Ramsay’s eyes and nods. 

“Good boy,” approves Ramsay, releasing him. He takes his place on the floor at Theon’s feet once again, this time a little more pleased to be there. He is, as always, utterly in control.

And then Theon leans over, grabs Ramsay hard by his jaw, prizes open his lips and _spits into his mouth._

“ _Theon!_ ” he gasps in absolute, utter indignance, but Theon only laughs.

“Whore,” he mutters: a throwaway, careless word. He pushes Ramsay’s face away and reaches for the goblet again. There’s no nervous gulping this time. The sip he takes is slow, lascivious. “Come sit in your lord’s lap, slut. Don’t worry. I’ll see to it you enjoy yourself. If you’ve earned it.” 

If Ramsay’s honest, he’s still reeling from the spit – wherever the fuck that came from – though he’s determined not to show it. He stands, somewhat wobbly, and places himself between Theon’s legs on the bed. How utterly absurd Ramsay feels, like a great oversized child. Theon shifts him about, holding him with one hand on the small of his back, and the other cupped around Ramsay’s left thigh.

“Bit chubby for a whore,” muses Theon, squeezing the top of Ramsay’s buttock. “Maybe lay off the lemon cakes.”

_Five strikes, Greyjoy. Ten fucking strikes and you’re forbidden from spending. For two weeks. Five weeks. Five fucking years._

With great effort, Ramsay growls, “Apologies. My. Lord.” 

“No matter. I’ll fuck you face down. Anybody’s arse looks good raised off a bed with my cock stretching it open.” Theon lands a slap across Ramsay’s bare backside, smirking as Ramsay squirms. How Theon begs to be hit, whipped, tortured, night after night, is utterly beyond Ramsay. That slap _stung,_ yet it was nothing compared with what Ramsay’s capable of when he lets loose on his pet squid. “Like a bit of a slap, do you?” Theon continues, and Ramsay can’t help but feel it wouldn’t matter one bit whether he likes it or not. Theon brings his flat palm down on Ramsay’s pale skin once more and this time Ramsay can’t help it, he gasps in pain. “Yeah. There you go. Naughty little slut. No more lemon cakes, you hear?”

Ramsay fixes Theon with a glare so immediate, so malevolent, he’s sure Theon will crumble and beg for instant forgiveness. 

But he does not.

“What the fuck are you looking at me like that for? Your job is to sell your body. If I were a fletcher and my job were to sell arrows, I’d make fucking arrows. If I sat on my arse all day and produced fucking…I don’t know, woven baskets instead, I’d expect a tongue lashing off my customers. I would not sit there looking all outraged if one pointed out to me where I’m going fundamentally wrong in my chosen profession.”

Ramsay opens and closes his mouth like a fish as all words and sense desert him.

“I’m bored of talking. You’re no sport in that regard. I mean, I know most whores are dim-witted, but every now and again you get one with a bit of something about them. It seems today is not one of those days.” Theon pushes Ramsay out of his lap and nods towards the bed. “I’ll have some fun with your other end, though. Face down, hands behind your back, and get that arse up in the air.”

Of course, Ramsay had known this was coming. What he hadn’t managed to quite think through is how it would all play out. He’d assumed Theon would fiddle with him a bit, just to keep the game going, then perhaps lie him back and hop on his cock like normal. This new Theon, however…Ramsay wouldn’t put it past him to just jab his cock up Ramsay’s arse, dry as Dorne, with little warning and even less compassion. 

“Theon – I mean, Lord Greyjoy – mayhaps you’d like me on my back, so you can sit on my cock and then—”

Theon’s voice is thick with conviction. “Ramsay. Do it how I want it or I’ll never willingly suck your cock again. You could force me, it’s true, but you _know_ how good I can make it when I want it to be good.”

“But…but you said you don’t even _like_ sucking cock!”

“I say a lot of things, Bolton. I also say, ‘no! Stop! Help! Anything but that!’ but that doesn’t stop you fucking me, does it? Now, bend the fuck over, Ramsay, and let me lick your arsehole. No, I’m not going to put anything up there so you can stop crying.”

“I am not crying,” Ramsay grumbles, crawling on all fours up the bed. He settles himself forward, clasps his hands behind his back and lifts his arse. It’s uncomfortable, which comes as a mild surprise as Theon always seems to love it, seems to moan and writhe so much more when Ramsay fucks him like this, his head pinned to the bed. “You can probably put one finger up there, but that’s it—”

Suddenly, Theon’s long, archer’s hands are presented next to Ramsay’s mouth.

“Suck.”

“What?”

“Suck my fingers.”

“Are you mad? I am not sucking your fingers like I’m some whore – like, like I’m _you!_ ”

“Fine. I’ll go in dry. Wonder what your boys will have to say about their Lord Bolton after you scream the place down?”

“I hate you,” Ramsay mutters, as he takes Theon’s fingers between his lips. 

“No, you don’t,” replies Theon, and Ramsay can hear the fucking smile in his voice. “Oh yes, Lord Bolton. Just like that. Such a pretty whorish mouth—”

“I’m going to use that bad whip on you,” grumbles Ramsay around Theon’s fingers. “The one that made you safe out. And I’m going to go temporarily deaf whilst I use it, particularly to the word “ravens”. In fact, I’ve never even heard that word before. I’ve no idea what it means -- _ouch!_ ”

“I’ve told you we’re doing it _my way_. So you either shut up and enjoy yourself, or I’ll go full Reek and shuffle out of here to sleep with the dogs, you won’t get your end away, and I’ll spend the night fending off Damon with his shifty leer and rancid prick.”

Ramsay twists around, sits up in an instant. “Has he tried it on with you? I’ll kill him—”

“Did I tell you to move, whore?” Theon taps his fingers to Ramsay’s pursed lips in rhythm with his words. “Suck. My. Fingers.”

Ramsay glowers at Theon, a thousand curse words exploding in his brain. Slowly he opens his mouth and Theon hooks his fingers back in. First two, and then a third, and finally a fourth, so Ramsay’s lips are stretched obscenely, wantonly, he can just picture himself. His cock stirs, and stirs yet even more as a smirk spreads across Theon’s face. 

“Good. Now turn around and bend over.” 

Ramsay does as he’s told, of course, but the count is up to about sixty lashings, a good paddling and naturally, that mean little leather strap Ramsay likes to tighten over Theon’s balls. Theon hates that leather strap. 

“What are you smiling at, you dumb slag?”

“Anticipation of pleasure, _my lord_ ,” replies Ramsay.

“Yeah well. You won’t have ever felt anything this good before, so smile all you like. Hold your arse open. Come on, whore. I shouldn’t have to tell you the fucking basics. This isn’t slut school, for fuck’s sake.”

Ramsay reaches backwards and gingerly spreads his arse cheeks, one in each hand. He’s seized by a very unfamiliar feeling of nervous discomfort, of total and utter exposure. Theon can do all this shit; he laps it up, the humiliation, the pain, the filth. It’s completely foreign to Ramsay; whilst he loves having his cock sucked by Theon’s willing mouth, and whilst he will lick gleefully at Theon’s arsehole, and whilst he will happily bugger Theon near bloody, his own back passage has thus far been uncharted territory. 

Theon’s tried before, of course. His tentative little fingers go to Ramsay’s opening almost every time they fuck, but all Ramsay has to do is bark at his little pet and the reconnaissance mission retreats in a flurry of _sorry master, bad Reek_ s and such forth. 

“Keep them spread like that, whore,” mutters Theon. Ramsay can feel his hot breath ghosting at his hole. “I like a nice open arse so I can breathe. And I want to hear you moan.”

_I’m not a depraved slut like you, Greyjoy. I can hold my shit together. There will be no need to moan—_

Warm, slick wetness envelops Ramsay’s arsehole, sliding in a smooth motion from his balls up to the top of his buttocks, then back to his opening where Theon’s tongue becomes more probing, more urgent, and all thoughts of flogging and flaying fade to nothing as Ramsay’s knees buckle beneath him and he moans, long and loud, as he has never felt anything so wonderful in all his life.

“Hold it together, Bolton,” says Theon hoarsely, before resuming his task. His tongue flicks so expertly around Ramsay’s hole, he can feel himself fluttering, clenching and opening for him. There are moments that Theon’s tongue goes _right in_ , and during those moments Ramsay feels as though he may black out. “You’re loosening right up for me, aren’t you,” whispers Theon. “Needy little bottom-fuck whore.” 

Ramsay wants to order him back on his arse, to tell him not to stop. Instead, words fall out of his mouth that he had certainly not planned to say. “A finger – just one, just so I can see if—”

“No. I’ve told you. _My_ way.”

Ramsay has no time to protest, to move, or even _gasp_ ; he just feels the two fingers press with conviction at his opening before pushing inside, and by the Gods he feels so _full_. How the fuck can Greyjoy take Ramsay’s whole cock….his whole fist? Deep within his arsehole, Ramsay feels Theon gently wiggle his fingers, scissoring them open, allowing Ramsay’s body to adapt to the sensation. More than once, his touch grazes that part within Ramsay that seems increasingly likely to make him sob and wail like a woman, but thankfully either Theon hasn’t realised what he’s touching or doesn’t much care. And _two fingers_. Ramsay had explicitly only given permission for just one.

He speaks with stilted difficulty. “Theon. Don’t try my patience.” 

Without moving the fingers up Ramsay’s backside, Theon shifts his grip to press his thumb behind Ramsay’s balls. “Fuuuuuck!” groans Ramsay, pushing back into Theon’s hand. “I – I need—”

“What was that, Lord Bolton?”

“Greyjoy…”

“Another finger, you say?” Theon laughs. Ramsay hears him spit, feels the sudden wet slap hit his hole. A third finger stretches him open and without any preamble, Theon very deliberately curls his fingers downwards towards Ramsay’s stomach. He knew what he’d been touching all along. A great, shuddering sob judders through Ramsay’s body. “Oh – am I hurting you?” says Theon, all mock concern. It’s such an accurate impression of Ramsay, it’s chilling. “Don’t worry, there there, good boy, sweet whore. I’ll pull out.”

And then all at once, Ramsay’s arse is empty and cold, gaping like a dying fish no doubt, and that fantastic feeling of fullness left as nothing more than a void. Desperate, he lifts his arse higher, presses his head hard into the bed.

“Theon, I swear to whatever fucking oddball god your people keep, if you don’t put something back up there at _once_ , flaying will cease to be an empty threat and will become a very present reality.”

“I’d love to see you try with my hand up your arse.”

“Currently your hand is not anywhere near my arse, a situation I suggest you rectify because we both know I could turn around this instant and snap one of those pretty fingers right off.”

“And we both know you won’t.” 

Ramsay gasps in a mixture of shock and relief when Theon pushes two fingers back up into his hole, stretching him open and curving downwards again to make Ramsay buck backwards and moan loudly. 

“Far too loose for just two fingers. A proper little whore, aren’t you?” He laughs in contempt. “Now, do you want more?”

“ _Yes…_ ”

“Then here you go… _bastard_.”

“You _fucking – ugh!_ ” 

It’s quite overpowering, the swell of rage that blooms in the pit of Ramsay’s stomach, and even more overpowering when Theon pushes in a third finger and the fury is swallowed by an intense, blinding pleasure like nothing else Ramsay has ever felt before. His knees buckle underneath him and he collapses with a strangled moan onto the bed, all the while Theon’s working his fingers in a steady motion, in and out, pressing with enough confidence to render Ramsay utterly useless, but never crossing the line into pain. 

“Stop rutting into the furs,” laughs Theon. Ramsay hadn’t even realised he’d been doing it. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Ram. Seriously. You’ll spend and I’m not finished with you yet.”

“I won’t – ah – I won’t spend,” breathes Ramsay, grinding his cock into the bed very much like a man who is about to spend. 

“ _My way,_ or are you forgetting? Need to be reminded that you’re just a slut’s hole for me tonight?”

“ _Theon…_ ”

A mocking drawl. “ _Ram…say…!_ ”

And then all at once, the fingers are gone again, which must be some cruel joke because Theon wouldn’t do that, not _now_ , not when Ramsay is so fucking close, and he’d removed them before, so why would he want to torture him repeatedly like this? Ramsay allows a long, frustrated groan to escape him, muffled in the furs, as the irony of such a thought drowns him like ice water. Then Theon’s capable hands are at his hips, pulling his arse up and away from the bed again, which is equally unfair because his cock needs some sort of touch, some pressure, some friction…

“Theon? What the fuck are you doing? What’s that noise?”

“I am handling myself.” 

Ramsay steals a glance over his shoulder and gasps. Theon is indeed handling himself, and by the Gods it is a glorious sight. He’s on his knees on the bed, one hand wrapped underneath his balls and the other tight around his prick, and there is nothing slow or languid about his strokes. He’s pumping furiously at his cock, rock solid and red-headed in his palm, and the wet slaps accompanying his ministrations sound so fucking filthy that Ramsay almost wants to turn around and swallow Theon’s length right to the back of his throat and beyond, and Ramsay does _not_ suck cock unless he’s using the procedure as a weapon of torture. 

Theon’s breath comes in rags, his words disjointed and broken. “Spread – Ram, your arse – keep it – want to—”

Ramsay tentatively does as instructed. His laugh comes out a lot more nervously than he’d intended. “You’re not – I mean, fingers are one thing, but—”

“Shut – shut up,” mutters Theon. He throws his head back for a moment and Ramsay imagines running his tongue up that incredible neck, biting at Theon’s jaw, strapping him down, caning him bloody, using his knife, using his hands, using fucking _anything_ to make Theon’s cock erupt with his spending, soothing him gently, kissing his whipped stripes, scooping him close, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ …and Ramsay watches as Theon’s expression twists into a grimace of anguished delight, a strangled moan escapes his lips, and strings of seed splatter across Ramsay’s spread arse, up his thighs, into his stretched hole. 

Theon groans and rocks through his orgasm, squeezing out the last drops of his seed onto Ramsay’s thigh at the curve of his buttock. “There -- there you go, you needy, seed-sucking whore,” he says breathlessly. “You’re nice and slick. I can touch you properly now.”

“Seven fucking hells, Thee—”

“Arse up. Face down.” 

And then Theon’s hand is in Ramsay’s hair, holding him in place, as his fingers enter him again, for a third time, so _fucking_ easily as though half of the fucking Dreadfort had already had a go. He can feel a fat glob of Theon’s seed running down the inside of his thigh. Within his opening, Theon finds the spot at once, stroking it rhythmically and strong, as Ramsay mutters into the furs and tells himself he will not cry, or wail, or beg for more. 

“Low born bastard,” says Theon, in a voice so quiet Ramsay can barely hear him. “Bred of rape and bad fucking blood. You were always going to be a slut and nothing more. A whore. A hole.” 

Ramsay knows he should bite back. Theon would want him to. Theon’s probably frustrated he’s not been pinned to the bed and punished by now. That is Theon’s role: to be punished, be hit, humiliated. And Ramsay’s role is to hit and humiliate. 

“Nothing to say, Snow?”

A pause. The word is difficult. But Ramsay says it regardless.

“ _More._ ”

There’s the tiniest hint of relief in the way Theon exhales his held breath. “Boy whore,” he mutters. His hand releases Ramsay’s hair and the angle of his fingers changes. At once, Ramsay can feel Theon’s lips at his entrance. “You’re a mess,” he whispers into Ramsay’s arse. “A dirty mess. Who’s going to want you now? Who’s going to listen to you as their lord, when you’re nothing more than a slut-hole?” 

Ramsay shudders at the unmistakeable sensation of Theon’s tongue as it joins his fingers. It’s too much. Everything… _feels_ too much. His cock is throbbing. His stomach is so taut with need. 

“Mmm,” hums Theon into Ramsay’s opening, tongue lapping at his stretched muscle. “At least your whore’s arse – makes my seed – taste fucking amazing—”

And that’s it. 

Entirely without warning, Ramsay’s vision swims and the pooling feeling in his belly swells so quickly he doesn’t even know it’s happening. Someone groans, long and hoarse, and then Ramsay’s on his stomach on the bed, panting and coughing out hacking sobs, and there’s a dampness beneath him, a hot, sticky wetness, and his arse feels so _full,_ and Theon laughs, he _laughs…_

“Well. Never heard you make that noise before, Ram.”

It takes Ramsay a moment to regain his breath and to recover his wits. “Ugh,” he manages, and considers the possibility that his wits are perhaps yet to catch up.

“Easy. I’m going to pull out now, alright? It’ll feel a bit odd at first. Just lie down.”

Ramsay gasps. The emptiness is cavernous, wretched. From somewhere behind him, Theon snorts a little amused laugh. 

“You’re gaping,” he says, the pride palpable in his voice. 

“And – and you’re surprised?” Ramsay manages to roll onto his back, his softening cock flopping across his thigh. Theon’s eyes rake up his body, lingering on his stomach, so Ramsay looks down to take in the smear of his own spilling across his flesh. “What – what the fuck _was_ that?”

Theon leans forward, runs a hand through the sticky mess on Ramsay’s belly. “That, Ramsay, is the reason I turn into such a quivering, submissive little freak when you fuck me. And that was just some fingers. Imagine what it feels like having a cock up there.” He offers his fingers to Ramsay’s lips.

“Theon – surely, you don’t mean for me to—”

“Just because you’ve spilled, this isn’t over. You wanted to know who Theon Greyjoy was? Well, he was the type of man who would scoop it all up, to whomever it belonged, and allow his whore to show him what a good housekeep they are by cleaning up nicely. Are you going to clean it up nicely, or am I going to have to rub it all in your face?”

 _That’s another five lashes,_ thinks Ramsay, but opens his mouth. It doesn’t taste horrendous. He’s eaten worse stuff that’s come out of the Dreadfort kitchens pretending to be food. And the way Theon’s smirking at him, half in contempt and half in pride, spurs him on further. Ramsay licks until Theon’s hand is clean and Theon nods in approval. 

“Between you and me, Ram,” he says at length, settling down to lie at his side, “I didn’t think I’d get you to do that.”

“Lick it up?”

 _”Pfft,”_ exhales Theon. “That. Any of it. Genuinely thought you’d murder me when I called you ‘bastard’.”

“It’s not too late, you squidling cunt. You’d better sleep with one eye open.” 

Theon ignores this. “You spilled without being touched.” A slow smile creeps across his face. He looks positively gleeful. “Ramsay Bolton spilled without being touched. You debauched little whore.” 

“Theon! You’ve spilled without being touched countless times—”

“Yes, and why d’you think that was?”

Ramsay props himself up on an elbow and looks Theon square in the eye. “Well – I just sort of thought you…got off on the pain.”

“What?”

“Like, the humiliation. The agony of it all. Because you’re, well. A little weirdo. You love nothing more than when I spank the living daylights out of you. Why would I think fucking you was any different?” A pause. “I hadn’t – I mean, I didn’t realise the element of…physical pleasure.”

“Ha! Drowned fucking God, Ram—” Theon’s laugh is loud, relentless. “You’ve never even put a finger up there yourself?”

“Of course I have. Just not…as successfully.”

“Well,” Theon muses. “It seems Lord Bolton likes being fucked as much as he enjoys doing the fucking.”

Ramsay pulls Theon into his arms. “Lord Bolton does not.” 

Theon laughs. “Mayhaps not all the time. I’d feel sorely neglected.”

“Oh don’t you worry, my Reek,” says Ramsay. He wonders if the sixty lashings, the paddling and the strapped balls may perhaps be too much even for Theon to take, but dismisses the thought as quickly as it had come. “After today’s little performance, there is absolutely no chance of that.”

And Theon smiles.


End file.
